


Immaculate Deception

by foxtwin



Category: A Happy Hooligan - Matt Duke (Song)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Fictional Religion & Theology, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, Oral Sex, Ritual Public Sex, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 12:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21817441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtwin/pseuds/foxtwin
Summary: "The gallows was never meant to be used. A shame that He now sings that cynical Fa-La-La, as if I were even capable of acting as His executioner."
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Immaculate Deception

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlTheAlchemist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlTheAlchemist/gifts).

> Many thanks to my betas: morbane and htbthomas.

We built this temple together, He and I. Marble block by marble block. Made with love, all of it. By men, for men. Only men. 

That’s the altar upon which our followers offer their semen sacrifices to Him. Looks like a bed, doesn’t it? That was His idea. 

There’s a real bed chamber to the left that belongs to the two of us. We are the only living Gods of Lustful Renewal after all. We live here. Just as all gods live in their temples. Of course you see the cage and gallows, which, I assume, is why you are here. You’re a curious Seeker, wanting to know more about Him and my connection to His religion, aren’t you? Why He’s in that cage. Why I put the gallows up. 

Ah, the gallows. That was a beautiful mistake. Like me meeting Him. Perhaps it was even divinely ordained, if you believe in such things. The gallows was never meant to be used. A shame that He now sings that cynical Fa-La-La, as if I were even capable of acting as His executioner. The very thought both amuses and confuses me. Though I guess I oughtn’t be surprised.

Getting Himself locked in the cage wasn’t meant to happen, either. I mean, He was supposed to be this all-powerful sex god, or demon, or at the very least a living demigod, or guardian angel with supernatural powers. He seemed to have sex appeal in plentiful supply, enough to seduce anyone He wanted. He could make you come and want more and more in the worst kind of way. But He also could twist your reality to suit His whims, blunt any dagger pointed at him, unlock the trickiest chastity belt. His fingers were magical. Wouldn’t you think He could escape the cage with those marvelous hands of His, or at least cast some kind of sexual spell on himself to entice the odd passer-by to unlock its seductive constraints? 

The cage, like the gallows, is ordinary in every respect. I should know. I made them both.

Our religion — if you can call it that — was borne of the needs of all men who work these mines day to day — sex. And we provide lots of opportunities for it. I can see your excitement in the twinkle in your eye, and by the bulge in your pants. But sex was only the hook. The true doctrine of our faith is formed on an idea of death translating into life: Death of ego allows us to share our semen with others; the most sacred death of our virginity allows us to accept a new life of pleasures and sensations given to others; death of our own virility leads to virility in our partner. 

“A man’s ejaculate is life,” He would often tell His followers. “And the ecstasy that follows its outflow is the divine gift I give. Feel its powerful pulsing; taste its sweet-sour-stickiness.”

And His followers opened themselves to His divine gifts. An elixir to wash away their day to day toils in the corporate mines. 

“Men everywhere must kill the ego! Kill the self with and for other men; share the gift together and submit an offering of the same to the Master of Lustful Renewal,” He would preach. He promoted a notion of order within the context of what others called “unnatural.” Can you believe? The stiff-necked authorities in the colony were among the first to endorse our religion! 

There was a courtesy that was extended from Giver to Receiver, and an appreciation by the Receiver for the gift of the Giver. And in Giving and Receiving, He grew more powerful and virile, and His followers believed that Giving to or Receiving from a virgin was the holiest act. 

Whatever He said or did as a god became the doctrine of the faith. All was allowable and possible for them as well, so long as the religious themes were put into practice. It’s why so many mindless men followed Him, leaned on His every word, chanted His creed in a rumbling basso that shook the foundations of our temple, killed their own innocence in His unholy name, masturbated together until the cum wouldn’t flow, and bedded each other often on the altar with fervent abandon. 

In truth, everything except our love for each other was an illusion of His own making. 

The demons and angels — ripped and muscular men who worked the deeper mines — were hand selected, costumed, and body-painted in exquisite, erotic detail. His followers would claim to see them flying through the temple at auspicious intervals — a savvy combination of his own seductive charisma, a little illusory theater magic, his oral prowess, and unmatched ability to sexually charm like-minded men. It didn’t hurt that he was a fantastic singer. 

Sex and seduction, with Him, became magical. His followers fully believed in Him because of His virility. 

“The feel of His cum was exquisite,” one follower would say. “As He came in you, you could feel His power, His essence flowing through you.” 

These comments spread through the mining colony. It’s why His apostles and rivals believed He was a true living god. No one else could give head like Him. No one else could come in you so...purely. It’s why I believed in Him, myself. No one working the mines was like Him in bed. 

I was — and am — His only Lover, yes — with a capital “L”, despite what the media may say. The Scriptures and Mantras the followers recited, the chants and hymns they melodically sang, had all been carefully crafted to play on His — on Our — deity. The emotional attachment I had for Him remains and keeps me grounded in the truth. I still love Him, get aroused by Him, by His singing, by His body next to mine sexually. And I want Him more and more, but I just cannot bring myself to the ultimate decision: Do I open the cage to be with Him eternally, or do I kill Him through malicious, seditious, and delicious torture?

Our relationship started innocently enough.

He found me alone, desperate, rebellious. I was attending an all-boys training school at Mine Colony 18-D. He was only 16, or so He said. Cornered me in a supply closet. Kissed me. Deep. Tasted of honey and mint and blood. But in that act, He had performed a miracle — unexplainable, undeniable. He gave me comfort when I didn’t have anyone to comfort me. He befriended me. He gifted me with a delicious bliss and ecstasy beyond all knowing. I was convinced of His deity from the start, and He never denied it. And He proved His virility and dominance over my will time and again, even as I grew to know Him more intimately. 

Our secret meetings were exquisite sexual encounters. They often started with dinner away from the common eating areas followed by walks along abandoned mining tunnels holding my hand in the blackness that enveloped us. 

“Say my name.” The soft, sensually spoken words seemed to echo in the tunnels. “Say it.”

As I said it, a chill ran up my spine — or was it his fingers? — heightening the sensual space between his lips and my ear. 

“Say His Name” became a sacred mantra for his followers — but it started as our own sensual, seductive secret. 

“Say my name” meant allowing Him to fondle me through my pants pocket, or unbutton my protective robe and rub His hand on my chest. And as I said His name aloud in the abandoned tunnels, the echoes encouraged Him to pull me down and force me to taste the sweet, holy elixir pumping into my mouth. 

After weeks of walking the mines, He would take me along remote stretches of roadway. He would push his exploring tongue deep into my throat after He’d force me to taste of Him. I can still smell Him, still taste the mix of salt and honeyed mint. 

Then came the quiet trysts, meticulously plotted out with enough poetry and erotic sensuality flowing between the two of us to slay the heart of any listener who dared speak ill of us. Then came the echoing, combined vocal and conjugal ejaculations that solidified our union — and made me His acolyte, disciple and apostle. 

There were bells throughout the mining camp. Each tone was meant for a different trainee. 

“If you’re needing me,” he said. “Find my bell, and ring for me.” I could ring His bell any time of the day or night and get whatever I was craving. And He encouraged every moment. It was true enough then, as it is now. And as those cravings increased, I rang that bell more and more often. Some in the camp got curious about the bell ringing. So I preached His goodness, and I taught others of His ways. And they followed. And I taught them His wisdom and goodness, in the same way He had taught me. 

One night after we had shared our holy offerings, he rubbed his hands over every inch of my body, releasing a tingling and warmth in me that only heightened the ecstasies of previous encounters with Him. He then chanted some strange words in a gutteral tenor as he probed my anus gingerly with his finger, and licking the shaft of the penis only to then tenderly cover the head with the holiest of kisses. A swirling of tongue and groan of pleasure brought out a stream of my semen into His mouth, which He promptly swallowed with a satisfied groan of His own. 

After this ritual, he declared me a god in my own right; a second God of Lustful Renewal. 

“How can I be a god like you?” I questioned. “I have no inherent powers.”

“You are, because I just ordained you to be a god. This ritual has given you the powers I have, and you and I are bonded. We are the Gods of Lustful Renewal.”

If I am a god, I am not one in the conventional sense of the word. Certainly not in the way His followers address Him. Perhaps I have always been a little godlike, superficially. But if I was, if I am, it was only because of the ritual He performed. After all, He introduced me to the possibilities of eternal love. 

We built this temple together, abandoning the mines for a life of service to the men and boys of 18-D. He gave me a small group of followers. He showed me how to perform magical miracles, like Him. And He had me create that bed-like altar to practice with Him the administration of the Holy Gift. And we administered them to each other for a time, with His blessings, before we opened the altar for use by our followers.

Believe me, no one was as surprised as I that this godhood had been transferred to me through this magnificent, magical, and erotic sensory-heightening experience. 

His downfall — and my rising — as reported by the World Media is only a half-truth wrapped in an enigma and buried inside a cosmic riddle. 

He began using the magic incantations in darker ways, to twist my thoughts to His own ends. And the media had a heyday at my expense. But I didn’t quite see the proverbial writing on the wall. 

Because He had created me to be a god, He treated me as someone who could be controlled. On the one hand, I became a god-puppet, instead of a free-thinking god in my own right. He had been grooming me to do His bidding, even though He kept encouraging me to be my own self. But I didn’t see or recognize how His chants, probes, and gropes were sapping me of my self-worth. I continued to be His cheerleader, despite the mixed messages encouraged by His witty, smooth, dagger-like turns of phrase. 

His encouragement increased my sexual appetite as I rose through the ranks of godhood. He said I fit His profile stereotypically as a god’s consort, and I relished the possibility of that truth. The more He said this, the more I trusted and believed in HIs version of the truth.

How many times did He deceive me about the power He had given me? I do not think there was ever a calculated deception; not at first, anyway. He believed in His power, too. But then things turned sour for Him, and for us. He believed in His power too much, and in the end grafted deceptions onto His formerly righteous purity. My followers and His followers diverged in both philosophy and practice, despite sharing the same temple. 

He began recruiting teenage boys fresh to the colony and seducing them with His charismatic charm. The smile He gave, the winks and smirks, betrayed His motives — and stirred a deep pain in me, His jilted Lover, His concubine god. 

But these recruits were naive and easily toyed with. There wasn’t any true love, in the sense of a deep emotional bond. And you could see it in His eyes, the empty, unfulfilled longing for intimacy and oneness that only I could give Him. He had carelessly pushed me aside, pushed me away, in favor of young men who looked more for status than true affection. He tried to hide some of these scandals from me, but I was a god! I knew of every one of them. 

Because I loved the way He smelled, the way He moved, the way He talked, I turned a blind eye. In my heart I knew He would come back, that He would find in me what He was looking for. I wanted Him only. And He was able to prove Himself to me time and again, even when I knew He had deceived me and been to the tunnels in the mines with those young innocents. 

His eyes lit up when He was with me, his groaning and arching spoke volumes that hundreds of encounters with the younger kind could not. And the smell of sex between us was sweet as honeyed mead. With each false tryst He had, I grew stronger. It was not the cum that gave the power, but the deep love-bond we shared. When our god-souls entwined, strengthening as strands added to a love-rope, my power as a god grew. 

Animal instinct sometimes replaces other, more cautious emotions. I craved His Celestial Bliss. I craved His coming to me, coming in me, being one with me. It empowered me. 

Then I caught Him in the act of sabotage! There was a time when He said He had been faithful to me. But I saw him kissing one of my younger followers in an effort to seduce that recruit away from me, and I gave Him what for, for betraying my trust in Him. 

He did not return the tongue-lashing, but instead gently offered to give me head. It worked. 

It would not be the first time He would grovel and offer sexual favors. And He played the minor deity to perfection, as my powers grew even stronger than His. He gave head at least a hundred times this way. 

But His deceptions continued, and his powers continued to wane. He sought to find true love in myriad parties, magical seductions, and sexual liaisons. But the love-bond weakened in Him. 

What once was holy and pure between us became defiled and base. Despite His dalliances, He always returned to me, sought my forgiveness, and commanded me to issue penalties for his indiscretions. 

These repeated offenses made me realize, perhaps for the first time, that we were cut from the same cloth, despite our different roles. Our craving for each other was divine; it’s what kept us together, and still draws us toward one another. Warp and woof. Two deities testing each other, tempting each other, circling like two dragons competing to claim a mound of treasure. 

His followers could not satisfy Him in the same way His true Lover could. 

“They are wolves in lamb’s clothing,” I said to Him one day. “You seek pleasures of the moment rather than long term commitment. My followers are well aware of Your wiles.”

“Forgive me,” He would say. “Share your Holy Gift, and I shall become pure again.”

Once His younger followers had joined with Him, they would seek me — and learn the truth. None could even come close to the love I had for Him. Only I was the True Lamb, the steady Lover, the real thing.

I guess I built the gallows as an inside joke, hoping He would catch the irony. See, the jig was up. Get it? I knew what He was up to, stealing my followers, creating young converts, despising those who called Him their master. 

I had seen how He treated others, how His cravings for true love were never satisfied. His secret trysts, His empty promises to His followers never satisfied Him; His attempts to find true bliss and love in the arms and eyes and mouths and pants of countless others was all wasted energy. He was deceiving himself with an immaculate deception — except that I could see through it, as clearly as through purified glass. I loved Him. And I still do. And I always will. 

For Him and His self-absorbed head, thinking with his dick. I made the noose from the finest silk I could afford. But it was never meant to be used — on Him or anyone. Hells, I could never have decided whether to string him up by the neck or by the balls! 

“It’s an allusion in art,” I said. 

“An illusion, indeed!” He snapped. “I see it plain as day. You want me, a god, dead. You want to remove me from this plane of existence and send me to howl through wastelands. I swear by myself and my Holy Gift that this gallows will be your undoing!”

His tirades grew more violent and demeaning. My followers chanted curses. And sang Fa-La-La to the empty gallows. They made effigies of me and put them on the gallows. They spat in my face and toppled shrines to me in His name. And my older followers forced the younger ones to renounce their celibacy. 

And it then it rained. A deluge. Night after night. Day after day. And He danced merrily through the puddle-soaked streets with Fa-La-Las flooding our ears. The weather somehow obeyed Him and not me. And His followers' faithful desires grew and grew, and He fulfilled them, every one. Only I was left out in the cold. But even in this, He was not satisfied. And His powers and mine began to decline through lack of sharing the Holy Gift. 

I built the cage for myself. A cage for a forgotten god. It had a self-locking door installed that would stay open until I was desperate for His attention again. Then, I planned to run into it, close the door, hear the lock click, and wait for His divine mercy to be meted out in either whip lashings or some other torture until He recognized that He needed me, His Little Lamb, just as much as I wanted and needed Him. I saw the cage as a fitting metaphor for being trapped by circumstances that only His divine presence could remedy.

But as you know, circumstances didn’t quite turn out that way. I begged for forgiveness, for His mercy, as I threatened to lock myself in the cage. And He relented. He returned my followers to me, and I returned to His good graces — and His blessed bedchamber.

Weeks passed less-than-blissfully after that. He wanted the gallows taken down. I kept it up, as a reminder of His trickery. But the gallows, for Him, remained a reminder of my heresy — and each time He looked at it, He playfully mocked it, turning his Fa-La-La ever more cynical. 

“Are you going to hang Me today?” He would ask, spewing disdain through his sarcasm. “My followers won’t let you.” And sometimes He would ask, “Will you be kicking the chair out from under me today? It won’t work.” 

After a few weeks of this kind of banter, I broke my silent acquiescence with rather forceful protests. 

“You have such a stiff-necked pride,” I said. “That gallows would break it, sure! Those followers of mine you deceived don’t love you like I can, do they?”

But He laughed at my threats and jabs, countering with His own. 

“It’s not my neck that’s stiff,” He would say, thrusting his hips forward. “But you’ll not be getting any tonight if you keep that tone with me!”

The mocking hurt, mostly because He didn’t understand how much I loved Him and couldn’t see past His engorged dick. And even when I tried to explain, He still saw the gallows as a stain on His reputation as a living deity. Our former life together had been upended yet again. But He had made it seem like it was my fault. And then I caught Him in our shared bed here in the temple. As if He was trying to make one His followers a god, like He had made me. But it didn’t work. Hs powers had declined so much, the chant was useless. 

“What’s all this?” I asked. 

“I’m a god,” He said. “I can make other gods, like I made you.”

“But I’m your Lover,” I said. “It’s our love that brings us power as gods. And this is how you treat me, who has been faithful to you, who loves you alone, who is a god in his own right?”

“I’m everyone’s lover,” He said. “And you’re not the only faithful lover I have.”

But His sentence did not ring true, and He knew it. Deep down, He knew He had lied to Himself. 

Something changed in His demeanor after that. He could no longer look me in the eyes. 

He became naked standing there in front of me. And He was naked when He raced to the place in the temple where I had built the cage. 

Before I could say anything, he had slammed the self-locking door shut and began groveling, singing and calling to me. 

“Say my name,” he would whisper. But I wouldn’t respond. 

Even as I saw his beautiful, naked body and recalled a more innocent time as he sang and groveled, I found Him amusing in His pettiness. It was cute; He was cute. I couldn’t allow myself to unlock the cage despite His singing, His mocking, and His oh-so-cute self. 

Even as He continues His rants and apologies, He still thinks He can regain His power, wanting His followers to adore Him. 

He mocks the gallows with his cynical “Fa La La” even while realizing I had been more steadfast than He. 

I’m still blown away by the ill-logic of it all. Why had He rushed to the cage to serenade and boast and mock? Maybe He can escape His bonds. Maybe He is toying with my mind. Maybe He likes it in there. Maybe it’s all a charade to Him. Maybe He’s gone mad. 

One thing is sure. He hasn’t been able to get out of the cage, despite rattling it every now and again. And that only proves his former godlike powers are gone.

The cage and gallows help me maintain a delicious tension — maybe even a sexual and spiritual tension — between me and His former followers. They’re my followers now, by default. The cage, in an ironic way, has become a place of comfort for Him and has become some insurance for me. Keeping Him caged helps me keep His followers from His sexual wiles. Which means that I will have Him all to myself, whether I choose to mercifully unlock the door or mercifully torture Him until He commits himself only to me.


End file.
